Wednesday, January 11, 2017
A little more than a week from now, hillbillies, rednecks and know-nothings will be tuned in to the swearing in of the most unfit man on the planet to the highest ranking position on the planet.
God, or the Flying Spaghetti Monster, help the United States of America.
The rest of us, the ones who were stunned by the same shitgibbon who...
* mocked a disabled reporter
* talked about unconstitutionally banning Muslims
* questioned the credibility of a judge with Hispanic roots
* talked about his big brain as well as his lady penis
* failed to identify the Nuclear Triad
* claimed women who exercised their reproductive rights should be punished
* appointed racists, fascists and billionaires to his cabinet
* spoke openly about grabbing pussy
* and reneged on virtually every campaign promise he made before even taking office
... will be stocking up hallucinogenics wondering, "how the hell did this happen?"
But if you work in advertising or have had any exposure to the corporate world, the meteoric rise of this goatish, idle-headed moldwarp should come as no surprise. In fact, it should've been expected.
Because it's nothing more than the Peter Principle in action. Which is best explained by this simple illustration...
Or, as I've been fond of saying, "how do these fucking idiots get to the top?"
And though I'm only 44 years old, I've seen plenty of them. Names are unimportant. But I'm sure you'll recognize these prototypical Presidents who we've all had the pleasure of working for at some time in our career.
There was President Lie to My Face. This agency honcho knows the value of incentivized performance. We'll all work hard, she'd say, and at the end of the year there will be big bonuses and generous raises. And there were. For her.
There was President Invertebrate. We could do good creative work that pushes the envelope and makes employees proud to work here, but clients don't want that. They don't want confrontation. Or rocking the boat. They've got kids and mortgages and car payments. And besides their layouts aren't so bad. And if the client wants to write the headlines that makes your life so much easier, doesn't it Rich?
And then there was President Foster Brooks. This President loved his alcohol. He was always drinking. When he wasn't drinking, he was thinking about drinking.
For some reason I have this scene stuck in my head. I can't remember if it actually happened or if it were part of some bad dream. I find myself with President Foster Brooks in the back of a stretch limousine on the way to a potential billion dollar client's headquarters. Foster stumbles upon -- he did a lot of stumbling -- the onboard liquor cabinet. As we crawl through traffic at 9:30 in the morning, President Brooks delicately starts fingering the bottlecaps of all the spirits, mumbling to himself, "Mmmmm, vodka. Mmmmm, bourbon. Mmmm, tequila." All the while I start mumbling to myself, "Mmmmm, must freshen up resume."
It had to have been a dream. Right?
A dystopic dream just like the one we'll be facing on January 20.